His Best Friend
by jamesandlilypotter81
Summary: Hermione never quite stops worrying about her best friend.


Hermione pulled at her robes nervously, shifting the heavy bag that hung on her shoulder as she did so. It was oddly warm for early October, and though she was grateful for Hogwarts' cool corridors, she wished that the magic that kept the castle at a comfortable temperature could be used out on the grounds as well. Nothing was more satisfying than reading a good book under the shade of her favorite tree…

"Hermione? What're you doing here?" She looked up in surprise, not having expected seeing him so soon. The old fraud most have ended class early…

"I wanted to talk to you," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. The truth was, she was torn between incomprehensible anger at her best friend, and an intense worry for him that filled her very core. In the end, however, the worry won out.

"Are you going to tell me off again?" he asked, leaning against the wall as the other Gryffindors came down the trap door and headed down the tower—obviously eager for lunch. Hermione bit her lip, feeling a bit of her ire return.

It wasn't that she _enjoyed_ telling him off as he seemed to assume. He just didn't seem to understand that she was trying to help him—to protect him—to the best of her ability. She had vowed to always be there for Harry James Potter, but he was making it incredibly difficult to keep that promise. She'd probably be the one who ended up doing him in…

"_No_. I just want to talk." He looked at her with some skepticism, but he didn't just stalk off as he was wont to do.

"All right, then, Hermione. Talk." She blinked, pulling at her robes again. "Well?" Harry pressed, looking at her with a slight bit of worry.

"It's just—I didn't expect you to actually let me talk. I don't have anything planned…I thought I'd have to chase you all around the castle," she admitted a bit sheepishly. Harry stared at her for a moment, and—if she wasn't absolutely mad—she was sure that he was fighting a smile.

"Then how about _I_ talk?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry." Hermione blinked, utterly confused—something that rarely happened to her.

"What?" she managed to say, staring at Harry with wide eyes. He was brave and kind, but he wasn't the sort to come out an apologize this way. Especially since, well, especially since he hadn't actually done anything.

Harry was, by nature, full of fire. He drew upon it for strength, used it as a source of warmth when doubt threatened to overwhelm him with cold. Though Harry had a temper, though he was prone to yelling, Hermione had always known that it wasn't because he was unstable—it was because that fury, that fire within him, often was his only lifeline.

It was why, when Harry suddenly went silent—when his eyes didn't have that determined spark—Hermione had fought with him.

The silence had started only days after Sirius's death, and Hermione was sure that he was upset, that he needed time alone to mourn for his godfather. But now, after nearly a month into their sixth year, Hermione was beginning to wonder if that had been a good idea. Harry wasn't just withdrawn—he had closed himself off from the others. The only time he showed any passion was when he ranted about how he was sure Malfoy was up to something.

She had become alarmed, and soon she had found herself picking fights with him about everything—from Quidditch to Potions. She wanted nothing more than to see that spark, to know that Harry hadn't lost his fire. She fought with him not because he had done something wrong, but because he just did…nothing.

"I said I'm sorry," Harry repeated, looking at her with a small smile. "I—" he stopped abruptly and ran his fingers through his hair. "Merlin, this is a lot harder than I thought it would be," he said sheepishly, shrugging slightly.

"I don't know what you're sorry about," Hermione said honestly, looking at him carefully. Perhaps he had a fever and was delirious? Or maybe he had been hit in the head with a stray bludger during their last Quidditch practice, and the concussion was talking. Either way, surely something was wrong.

"You're my best friend, Hermione," he said slowly, "and you're always worried about me."

"Well, of course I am," Hermione muttered. "You're always doing something dangerous."

"Yes, but what about you? When was the last time you even had a full night's rest?" Hermione blinked. _That_ what all this was about? That he didn't think she slept enough?

"Please, Harry. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she said briskly, beginning to walk down the stairs. Harry, however, stopped her and held out his hand.

"Give it to me," he said, his voice firm. Hermione stared at him, quite sure he had lost his mind. What kind of fumes were in Trelawney's classroom, anyway?

"Give you what?" Harry rolled his eyes.

"Give me your bag." Hermione felt her mouth fall open. She hugged her bag to her, and shook her head violently.

"What do you want with my books?" she demanded. "I swear, Harry, if you're planning on hiding them so that I won't read as much, like Ron did, I _will_ hex you." Harry laughed, but continued to hold his hand out.

"No, I just want to carry it for you. It looks heavy." Hermione knew that a blush was forming on her cheeks. His answer, so sweet and kind, was nowhere close to what she had accused him of.

"Harry," she said slowly, "it's really not necessary. I charm it, so it doesn't weigh anything at all." He raised an eyebrow, as if he knew that she had forgotten to do just that this morning because she had been so worried about his recent behavior. Grumbling slightly, Hermione handed over her bag, knowing that he was stubborn to a fault and wouldn't let it go.

"Merlin, this is _heavy_," he said, his eyes widening as he hung the bag over his shoulder. "You carry _this_ around all day?"

"Like I said, I charm it. I just forgot to do it this morning."

"Oh, really?" he asked, looking at her oddly. "And why's that?" Hermione bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of answering the question. It was obvious he already knew. After all, just that morning she had fought with him over the Potions textbook. She turned to head down the stairs, but he stopped her once more, giving her a serious look. "You're always worried about me." Hermione felt all the fight in her give way. He sounded so…unsure.

"Of course I am, Harry. You're my best friend. It's my job to worry."

"And it's my job to worry about you," he said emphatically. "I'm sorry I've been so horrid at it." He grinned apologetically at her, and for a moment—a brief second—Hermione was quite sure she saw the fire in his eyes. The determination that had been missing for so long was slowly returning.

"I'm sure all you need is a bit of practice," she joked. Harry laughed, and followed her down the stairs, absently shifting the heavy bag on his shoulder.

"I know it's warm outside, but why don't we eat lunch on the grounds? I'm sure Dobby would love to fix us some sandwiches." Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and all the way down to the kitchens, the two of them argued over whether or not asking Dobby for sandwiches was an abuse of power.

In the end, they sat underneath the shade of her favorite tree, both of them reading as they ate their lunch. Hermione knew it wasn't something he _wanted_ to do, but he did it because he realized she enjoyed it. He did it for her, because despite all their fights, all the anger they'd felt over the past month, she was his best friend.

And he was hers.

_I hope you liked it! Please review!_


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